Sherlock's phone vibrates on the kitchen table. (Lestrade had returned it apologetically three days after The Incident.) John looks at it.
It vibrates again.
And again.
And again.
John snatches it up impatiently, reading the text.
"Are you saved? If you died tonight, would you go to heaven?"
Spam. It's almost laughable. If you died tonight… He looks at the drawer where his gun was locked safely inside.
On an impulse, just to shock whoever it was that sent him the message (and also because he had nothing better to do), John texts back.
"I have killed a man. –JW"
He realizes after sending it that it might incriminate him. Then he remembers that he has killed many men in Afghanistan, and he hates the fact that the first thing he thought of was that cabbie.
The phone vibrates.
Unbelievable.
He checks it.
"In defence. –SH"
SH. For a moment, he lets himself believe that it was real. He closes his eyes, painfully remembering. He blinks them open and rapidly types,
"You wouldn't have taken the pill."
He pauses.
"Sherlock… I miss it. I miss the rush of pulling the trigger and hoping the bullet would fly straight. –JW"
He hits send. John stares at the phone, willing it to reply, then he realizes what he's doing. He texts again, angrily, fingers viciously jabbing the keys.
"Yeah, right. It's just some kids trolling again. I should be used to this by now. –JW"
The reply is immediate.
"Not 'some kids'. Meet me at Angelo's in 5. –SH"
John seethes. Pompous bastard. No one could convincingly pretend to be Sherlock for long. On second thought, it could be Mycroft – but he didn't believe that he would do that.
"Can't. Got a date. –JW"
He hasn't, of course. He just needs something to say.
"What? –SH"
"Sorry to let you down, you miserable excuse for a human being. Go do something productive and stop trying to tear me apart. Can't you see I'm already in pieces? –JW"
John nearly breaks his phone typing the next.
"Sherlock is dead. I know it. And I've moved on. Not well, but I've done it. –JW"
"Liar. Mycroft taped you talking to my skull. –SH"
"And Lestrade doesn't know, before you ask. He would have been a liability. –SH"
"John? –SH"
"Funny you should mention Lestrade, Sherlock. I'm late to seeing him. Really have to go. –JW"
"Lestrade is cleaning out his office. I doubt he planned on meeting you there. –SH"
"I'm at Angelo's in the kitchen. –SH"
"Come at once if convenient. If inconvenient, come anyway. –SH"
"I'm grabbing food on the way to Lestrade's. Have fun in the kitchen by yourself. Watch out for eyeballs. –JW"
John snaps his phone shut and stretches off the couch. He grabs his coat from the floor and shuffles out the door, wincing at his limp. On the way down the stairs, he yells to Mrs. Hudson, "The kids are at it again, don't answer the phone tonight!" and doesn't wait for her answer. He pulls open the door of 221b Baker Street, already shivering in anticipation of the cold night air.
Sherlock frowns at his (new) phone. It seems he would have to do this in person, then. He ties his scarf around his neck, makes sure his ginger wig is secure, and sweeps out into the cold London air. He hails a cab and orders the driver, "Scotland Yard."
I may as well grab dinner from Angelo's, John thought. Lestrade won't mind, and I can see if that little bugger is really there. Hmm, meatballs or lasagna…?
John's pace quickens as his stiff leg warms up. The stars are hiding tonight, but the moon is clear and nearly full, casting a disconcertingly bright light on the already fluorescently lit street. He's at Angelo's in no time, opening the door and seeing… no one. Of course. Just another prankster.
He doesn't allow himself to be disappointed, but continues to the counter as if food were the only reason he was there. "Hello, Angelo," he grumbles.
Sherlock shifts to the side of the seat unconsciously, glancing where John would usually sit. He blinks and looks away, out of the window. Almost there. His phone vibrates against his leg. He looks. It's Mycroft.
"He's at Angelo's. –MH"
Sherlock puts it away and snaps, "Go faster!" at the cabbie. The man gives him a dirty look.
John ends up ordering his usual, fettuccine alfredo, and meatballs for Lestrade. Angelo's got them ready on the double, piping hot and chock-full of extra sauce, as he always does for John these days.
Angelo privately wonders why John snuck a look into the kitchen when he thought he wasn't looking, but decides it's none of his business, pun unintended.
John pays with Sherlock's old card and readies himself to head back into the night. Perhaps a cab is the way to go, even though Lestrade's office is so close…
Out on the street once more, John glances around at the hustle and bustle of the metropolitan night, wishing only to go home and to bed. It had been a long day, and talking to impersonators always drained him. Maybe Lestrade would provide the pick-me-up he needed, though, and John didn't want to let him down – after all, he was the one that called Lestrade. He decides to flag down a taxi; it's really quite cold and the leg's acting up again.
Sherlock arrives at Scotland Yard, dashing out of the cab and belatedly turning back to pay. He resolutely does not think of John as he hands over the notes. He makes his way towards Lestrade's office, hiding the wig inside a filing cabinet on the way.
The DI is sitting on the floor staring at nothing, a single cardboard box next to him with picture frames and old crumpled memos stuffed into it. No files, of course – nobody trusts him enough with those anymore. Sherlock clears his throat conspicuously. "Are you going to just sit there? Your office is still a mess."
John finally finds a taxi and asks for "Scotland Yard, please," far more politely than Sherlock did only ten minutes ago.
The driver grunts irritably, "What's going on at the Yard? It's practically midnight, you know. What do all you people want over there?"
John doesn't look up. "Hmm? Sorry, all who?"
He explodes, "You! First him, with the 'Go faster' and not tipping, and you – you blondie with the innocent 'All who?' and it's so pointless, I'm sure there's nothing over there that is so important, and I'm stuck here driving this bloody broken-down rubbish and I'm so sick of this job!"
"Right, well… sorry, mate." John is a little taken aback, but he's tired and unfortunately not able to provide the emotional support this poor bastard obviously needs. He does, however, tip double when they finally reach Scotland Yard. The cabbie looks marginally less harassed as he drives off.
Meanwhile, Lestrade gapes at Sherlock and finally manages to blurt out, "You're dead!"
Sherlock doesn't turn from where he's inspecting one of the desk drawers when he answers, "Obviously, your information is incorrect."
"Does John know?" the inspector asks rather faintly.
Sherlock has the nerve to look surprised at the question. "I… told him," he replies neutrally.
Lestrade usually knows better than to believe Sherlock when he uses that tone of voice, but he's a little rattled right now and fails to notice. "But – how – you bastard!"
"Yes," Sherlock agrees. "Sociopaths usually are."
Lestrade suddenly flushes, recalling his most recent encounters with John. "Ah – Sherlock." He addresses the man's back; Sherlock is still going through one of the drawers he hasn't cleaned out yet. "John, well, ahem. John and I have really, ah, bonded since you died – or whatever you did."
Sherlock looks over his shoulder and raises his eyebrows pointedly at Lestrade's gold wedding ring. Lestrade sees the glance and says quickly, "Not bonded as in, bonded bonded, just… you know, went out for drinks and such. Platonic drinks," he adds, just in case Sherlock didn't catch that the first time. "And anyway," he continues, "How did you not die in the first place?"
The elevator finally consents to close, rushing John to the sixth floor. He walks (briskly now, in the well-heated government building) towards Lestrade's office.
"Molly is occasionally useful," Sherlock admits grudgingly, in response to the Inspector's question.
Lestrade sifts through Sherlock's brain processes and asks slowly, "Molly helped you to not die? How?"
Sherlock ignores him as he hears footsteps from the corridor. "And speaking of John…" he murmurs quietly. "I want pasta," he announces.
Lestrade stares. "It's midnight, you're in my office, you – fuck, you're alive, Sherlock, and all you can say is 'I want pasta'?"
Sherlock hears a crash behind him, like a box hitting the floor. He smiles. John. Right on time, as always.
Dropping whatever's in your hands, cliché, that's really cliché, John, but oh my God it's Sherlock he's so thin, is that healthy? Of course it's not healthy, he probably isn't eating anything, but he's dead, dead, dead, this isn't real I'm hallucinating but Lestrade was talking to him, wasn't he, but I saw him fall, I saw him die, I saw the body dead, so dead, oh so very, very dead-
Lestrade looks at John. He looks at Sherlock. He looks back at John (poor bugger, he looks like he's about to faint, I should have known Sherlock wasn't telling the truth). The tension was stifling. Lestrade inched towards the door and said, "You two… ah… catch up. I'll be somewhere over there." He dashes around John and out.
John stands stock still, his mouth wide open.
Sherlock doesn't turn, hands gripping the desk. "John –" but he doesn't get to finish the sentence.
"FUCK!" John shouts, the intensity of his thoughts and emotions coming to a sharp point in his chest. "FUCK YOU!"
Finally Sherlock turns. He tries to think of a witty comment, but words fail him when he sees John's face.
John knows he must look a mess, pasta fallen on his shoes, his face bright red, his eyes watering and hatred, hatred coursing through his entire body. "What." He can't even decide what to ask. "What are you…"
Sherlock retreats to facts to save him from the abyss of silence. "You got sauce on the carpet," he informs John pointlessly, and wants to take it back at his friend's (still his friend, right?) half-murderous, half-something-else expression.
The flash of anger whips John's brain into shape. "What in God's name are you doing, Holmes!" It's the first time he has ever called Sherlock by his last name. 'Sherlock' just seems too personal right now, and he had shut off any part of him that still believed he could ever say that name again.
Sherlock strides forward practically nose to nose with John. "You didn't believe me. At Angelo's," he clarifies. "I had to prove it to you. And – Moran is dead. Watson." He finishes the sentence with an ironic twist of his lips.
"Who the fuck is Moran? Where have you been? Is it…" He reaches out as if to touch Sherlock's face, but pulls his hand back and turns to face the empty corridor, hands bracing himself in the doorway. His stomach dropped at Sherlock's unfamiliar usage of his surname. The closeness was overwhelming.
Sherlock sighs inaudibly and calls, "Lestrade, you can come out now." Lestrade steps out of an adjoining office warily. Sherlock takes a deep breath and starts, "Moriarty's… sidekick is Sebastian Moran. He's the one who took control of the organization when Moriarty shot himself." On the rooftop, right in front of me. The words went unsaid.
John tried to calm himself. Don't punch him in the face. Violence is not the answer. Calm, calm, calm… The mantra helps John keep himself together as he strides past Lestrade. "I'm not listening to this. Right, Greg, ready to go? Thought you might like to try the new Thai place on the corner." His voice shakes on every word, his teeth chattering on long vowels, his head is rushing and spinning and all he can do is pretend, pretend, like he's been doing for 4 months. He smiles savagely at Lestrade, the expression and the friendly tone out of place in his angry posture and tightly controlled air.
Lestrade looks shocked as he backs into the office again, shaking his head dazedly. "J-John. It's… Sherlock. We can… let's go out tomorrow, yeah? Or next week, or – Please for the love of God stop looking at me like that!" John hates Lestrade too, in this moment.
"I wasn't lying, John!" Sherlock calls after him. John is already halfway down the hallway. "He didn't know!"
John turns around looking furious. "I don't care, Holmes. You knew. You were alive and you didn't trust me enough to tell me. You – four months, Sherlock! Four. Bloody. Months!"
"Three months, twenty-seven days, fourteen hours," Sherlock amends quietly.
"Come on, Greg! Can we please get out of here, I can't…" Suddenly his anger fades, leaving his body weak. He staggers to the side and finds himself leaning against the wall, still facing way from Sherlock. "Please…" he whispers, not sure which of the men he is talking to.
Sherlock stares numbly at him. He's never seen John like this. No, he corrects himself; he has. At his own 'body', when John was hysterical, sobbing and screaming. Sherlock closes his eyes in silent horror. I made him like this. Moriarty threatened to break him; but I did it first.
Lestrade nudges him and motions toward John. "Go," he mouths. Sherlock shakes his head, one quick, nervous motion. "Go!" Lestrade insists. Sherlock goes.
John is still standing, leaning against the cold wall, eyes closed, when suddenly he feels warmth enveloping him. He opens his eyes and sees long black sleeves wrapped around his chest, turns to see Sherlock's whole body pressed against his side, and begins to sob. Sherlock only clutches him tighter and murmurs, "I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry."
It's not enough, this awkward sideways grasp. John yanks himself away from Sherlock's tightening hold and stands, an arm's length away, ignoring his hurt expression, facing the person who gave him his life back and then took it away again. Tears prick his eyes but he is no longer crying; he stares at Sherlock, running over the lines of the face that had already begun to fade from John's memory. He wants to both kill and kiss Sherlock; the conflict leaves him in a state of utter inaction and consequential misery. He is, for some reason, sadder now than he has ever been.
Sherlock looks so lost and adorably confused, which almost (but not quite) makes John smile. After all, shouldn't he be the confused one? But he can't help himself, so he takes a small step forward. "Sherlock…" Yes. It was really, truly, unbelievably him. His Sherlock, the only Sherlock, the only consulting detective in the world and the only man John had ever truly loved. "I –"
John glances self-consciously behind Sherlock. Lestrade takes the hint and ducks back into his office, busying himself with who-knows-what. Sherlock interrupts him. "Do you remember what I said about caring?"
John freezes. "Yes…" Please don't say it.
"It was true. Caring isn't an advantage." Sherlock continues quickly, before he loses his nerve, before John has time to register the harsh words. "Caring is everything. It's a compulsion, it's a reason to exist, for better or for worse, caring is all there is. And," he swallowed and forged on, "I care about you."
John couldn't speak. This man, this self-proclaimed (although John had never truly believed it) 'high-functioning sociopath', this amazing, brilliant, annoying man in front of him said that he cared. About him. He looked up at Sherlock, leaned forward, and kissed him.
A/N: Prompt: Are you saved? If you died tonight, would you go to heaven? Co-authored with the amazing, awesome, anecdote-making bezele (she's on tumblr, go check her out!) on Omegle! Half of this is hers – she writes a very cool John. And this is nearly a week later than I said it would be, sorry about that…